


Art in the Blood

by Tibby



Series: Incommunicado [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:21:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/pseuds/Tibby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is thirteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes' first parent-teacher meeting at his new school. His parent, however, is unavailable so Mycroft dutifully steps in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art in the Blood

By all rights, the memory should have been Sherlock’s. It was, after all, his first parents’ evening at his new school. Mycroft didn’t even know the place - he had been to Harrow, while Sherlock was starting out at a very good but less hallowed establishment. Sherlock had every right to be writhing in embarrassment like all the other boys. Perhaps he had more right than any of them. His mother had other engagements to attend to and wouldn’t be present. Instead, his odd older brother had come down from Oxford to speak to the teachers.

Sherlock was terse and irritable at the time, of course. But ten years later he would not even be able to recall the night. It was uneventful. Forgettable.

The memory is Mycroft’s. He can remember Sherlock meeting him outside the school gates. He can remember the strange fatherly feeling when seeing the neat little thing (immaculate apart from his unruly hair) in his school uniform. He has forgotten Sherlock’s scowl and his own smile (such a genuine smile for a change) that it was a response to. But such things are inevitable.

“Mummy sends her apologies.”

Sherlock stared somewhere over Mycroft’s shoulder and said, “She called me today and said you were coming.”

Mycroft wondered whether their mother had mentioned that she wouldn’t be coming herself, or whether she had left Sherlock to figure it out. He considered asking, as he followed Sherlock towards the school buildings. However, they fell into a natural silence and the question remained unspoken.

 

In Mycroft’s memory, Sherlock’s teachers blend somewhat haphazardly into recollections of his own. He can remember being told by someone that Sherlock was “very probably a genius but a poor student”. Mycroft smiled a smile of gentle apology and sympathy. And he thought how little this teacher understood his brother, who would be a perfect student if he was taught anything that satisfied his intellect.

Mycroft has always fallen into this trap. He worries about his brother constantly, but he rarely considers that Sherlock is in the wrong. Sherlock, for instance, should take greater care to be nice to strangers, but Mycroft will always believe him to have the moral high ground in any altercation. The trap is a construction of their mother’s, built so very carefully around her sons. It has consistently upheld a strong sense of ‘Holmes against the world’.

 

Mycroft left very soon after the meeting was over. He had lectures to attend the next day, after all. He considered that the walk back to the car would be sufficient to make sure Sherlock was settling in well and wasn’t feeling homesick. As they walked down the drive, Mycroft unthinkingly took hold of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock snatched it away before Mycroft’s fingers could close over his. He quickened his pace a little and put some distance between them.

It was then that Mycroft had realised how deep changes go. Of course he had known that Sherlock was thirteen and was growing up and all of those obvious things. But he had somehow made that fit in with how things had been for so long. Sherlock, in his eyes, had continued to be the earnest, intelligent child who used his mind like a toy. Mycroft couldn’t be blamed for thinking so simply. He was young, and he had been so used to being the teenager of the family himself. He was the one learning how to be a properly functioning human being. It hadn’t yet occurred to him that Sherlock would have to learn too.

He thought of the dead boy, the murder that had kept Sherlock’s mind busy last summer. How awkward it had been, wondering whether to steer Sherlock clear of such a harsh reality. But Mycroft had been confident, then, in Sherlock’s childish comprehension. He wouldn’t really understand, would he?

Mycroft suddenly considered himself very foolish indeed.

“Do you hate it here?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock stopped but did not turn around. He answered evenly, “No. I don’t like it. But no one likes school. I don’t _hate_ it.”

“You will hate it,” smiled Mycroft, “Sometimes. And you’ll hate most of the people in it at one time or another.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with incredulity. Less from the possibility of loathing so many people, more from the often absent awareness that there had been people present to loathe. Mycroft was grateful for this piece of consistency in his brother’s character.

“I hope I didn’t embarrass you at all,” Mycroft said.

“Shut up. You _like_ embarrassing me.”

“You’ve never told me that I embarrass you before.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t know you‘re doing it, does it?”

Mycroft grinned, “That’s a good insight. One day, my boy, you might be almost as intelligent as me.”

 

They carried on in silence. It was an amicable silence but Mycroft felt increasingly awkward as he struggled to think of deep and meaningful advice to pass on before leaving.

When they eventually reached the car, quite a few of the other students in Sherlock’s year were nearby, saying goodbye to their parents. There were a few hugs, although most of the parents were trying not to unnecessarily embarrass their teenage sons. There were a lot of smiles, both real and contrived. Mycroft wondered whether the po-faced, skinny child and the sardonic-looking, slightly overweight twenty-year-old stood out at all. He listened to what the closest father was saying but it didn’t give him any better ideas for what to say to Sherlock. Finally, when Sherlock had exhaled a loud, bored sigh, Mycroft knew it was time to leave.

“If you ever need anyone to talk to, you know you can talk to me, don’t you?”

“I don’t need to; you’d know before I could tell you.”

Sherlock was remembering broken lamps, crashed bikes, arguments with other children, and the incident involving his mother’s cello.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You’d know,” said Sherlock, stubbornly, and then, seeing Mycroft climb into the car, he added, “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

Mycroft could only smile and say, “Goodbye, Sherlock. Take care.”

 

‘There’s always next time,’ Mycroft reminded himself as he drove away. He’d have had time to think by then. He would say the right thing when they next met.

Mycroft remembers this part especially well, just as he remembers all the words he did not say all the times following.


End file.
